“A fast-paced, witty and original fantasy,
reminiscent of Scott Lynch and Fritz Leiber.”
Adrian Tchaikovsky, author of
The Shadows of the Apt series
“Wherever Easie Damasco goes he leaves a
trail of destruction and angry people eager to
lynch him. Fortunately I felt just the
opposite, and I hope this charming
lawbreaker will be back for some sequels.”
Warpcore SF
“David Tallerman’s novel is a gripping yarn,
one that is difficult to put down once
started, and this reviewer is eagerly
awaiting the next tale of Easie Damasco.”
Starburst
“If you’re up for a fun, fast-paced adventure
featuring rogues, giants and lots of fighting,
you won’t want to miss it!”
A Fantastical Librarian
“Tallerman writes with a pace and style that
makes the book impossible to put down.
Fantasy adventure doesn’t get more exciting
than this.”
Morpheus Tales
“An excellent fantasy debut.”
Pornokitsch

an excerpt from
CROWN THIEF
by David Tallerman
To be published October 2012
(everywhere – US/UK/RoW)
by Angry Robot, in paperback and
eBook formats.
UK ISBN: 978-0-85766-249-1
US ISBN: 978-85766-250-7
eBOOK ISBN: 978-0-85766-251-4

Angry Robot
An imprint of Osprey Group
Distributed in the US & Canada
by Random House
angryrobotbooks.com
@angryrobotbooks

“Things are looking up for Easie Damasco.”
“Hrm?” Saltlick stared down at me questioningly.
That, at least, was how I interpreted the expression
smeared across the giant’s lumpish features. In truth,
it could have been anything between mild annoyance and indigestion.
“My luck is on the turn,” I explained. “Yours too.
Take my word for it.”
Saltlick’s face broke into a grin, and he nodded
enthusiastically.
Ahead, the small militia we travelled with – half
amateur soldiers gathered from around the Castoval,
half guardsmen from nearby Altapasaeda – chose
that moment to break into song. Or rather, songs, for
the minute the Castovalians struck up a bawdy tavern ballad, the Altapasaedans countered with a
clamorous northern marching chant.
It was an amiable enough competition. Here were
men who’d helped defeat the despotic Moaradrid,
foiled his plans for the Castoval, and now were

heading home as heroes; those all seemed good
enough reasons for high spirits.
I shared the soldiers’ cheerfulness, if not their
musical inclinations. My belly was full, so was my
purse, and no one was trying to kill me. Together,
those facts made for a vast improvement on my
recent circumstances. Saltlick, too, trudged along
with a slight but steady smile. While it took a lot to
disturb his natural contentment, for once even he
had his reasons to be happy. Moaradrid’s plot to
enslave his people had ended conclusively with the
warlord’s death. Now it was only a matter of uniting
his tribe and returning home, and I’d seen enough
of the giants’ idyllic mountain enclave to appreciate
how appealing that prospect must be.
Only Alvantes and Marina Estrada, riding just
ahead of us, were exempt from the general good
cheer. Alvantes had hardly spoken since we’d set
out yesterday. I’d noticed time and again how
Estrada watched him, obviously wanting to penetrate his gloom but not quite daring. She’d pressed
her horse closer to his on a dozen occasions, only to
fall back when he failed to so much as notice her
presence.
Now, however, she seemed finally to have steeled
herself. Encouraging her mount to a trot, Estrada
pulled a little ahead of Alvantes. “They don’t mean
to be callous,” she said softly. “They haven’t forgotten the friends they’ve buried.”
Alvantes reined in sharply, almost forcing the
entire procession to a halt. “You think I don’t know
that? It isn’t a soldier’s way to wail and weep over

death.” Then, plaintively, “Marina… I’m sorry. That
was inexcusable.”
“No, it wasn’t. But I wish you could talk to me. Is
it...” She finished the sentence with her eyes, which
lingered for a moment on Alvantes’s bandaged wrist,
now resting uselessly across his horse’s neck. The
hand that should have been there was buried behind
us, amidst the grave plots of his fallen guardsmen –
one more notch on Moaradrid’s sword.
“It hurts constantly,” he admitted. “It itches, too,
which is almost worse. But no, it’s not that either.”
“Then what?”
“Honestly… Marina, if I knew, I’d tell you. I suppose I can’t help wondering what my life means
now. Am I still guard-captain of Altapasaeda? Can I
rebuild the guard, with so many of them gone? Will
the King even allow it after we failed to protect the
Prince?”
Estrada reached to touch his arm, let her fingers
hang there for a moment. “Maybe you’re expecting
too much of yourself. You’ve been through a lot,
Lunto.”
“Maybe if I’d expected more of myself,” he said,
“it wouldn’t have come to this. Maybe if I’d done my
job I wouldn’t need to go and tell the King his son
has been murdered.”
“And if you hadn’t intervened, Moaradrid might
have murdered the King himself by now. You saved
the Crown.”
Alvantes started at that, as though she’d struck an
unexpected nerve.

“You did everything you could,” Estrada went on,
apparently not noticing. “Even the King has to
understand that. As for the rest… just give it time,
will you? Let yourself heal.”
“Of course. Thank you, Marina.” Alvantes made
an effort to sound like he meant it. If it didn’t fool
me, it certainly wouldn’t fool Estrada. Nevertheless,
she let her mount fall back, leaving him to his
despondency.
Poor, stubborn Alvantes. Of all of us, save perhaps
Saltlick, he’d suffered most from Moaradrid’s brief,
bloody visit to the Castoval. Now the man was too
damn noble to realise he’d won. I didn’t know
whether I felt more like slapping him or giving him
a manly hug.
If I attempted either, he’d undoubtedly break my
arm, so I settled for the third option of trying my
best to ignore him. My plan to travel on with him to
notify the King of his son’s death was already beginning to seem absurd. Why subject myself to
Alvantes’s dismal company when my world was so
full of options? With most of its leadership dead in
the battle against Moaradrid, the Castoval would be
in chaos for months. I doubted anyone would be too
concerned with my past indiscretions. For the first
time since I’d learned to walk upright, I had a clean
slate.
“No more being told what to do for either of us,”
I said, picking up my conversation with Saltlick
where I’d left it. “Especially not you. You can rescue
your friends and go home the conquering hero.” I
glanced once more at Alvantes and Estrada.

“Women go crazy for heroes. You can find yourself
a pretty giantess and settle down. There are pretty
giantesses, right?”
Saltlick nodded bashfully.
“Hey, don’t look like that! You should have more
confidence.” I studied his features for some compliment-worthy trait. The general impression was of a
knobbly, milk-white turnip. The best I could say was
that it was basically proportional, and I wasn’t convinced that would do much to bolster his
self-esteem. “You have a good heart,” I finished
weakly. “Women like that too.”
It was enough to bring back his smile, at any rate.
My stock of compliments exhausted, I finished
with an amiable pat to Saltlick’s wrist – the only part
of his arm I could comfortably reach – and returned
my attention to the rambunctious troops. The Irregulars had moved onto a song I knew, “The Farmer’s
Other Donkey,” while the Altapasaedans were countering with another deafening march. Singing over
each other at the tops of their voices, all but blocking
the road, they were quite a spectacle.
The thought reminded me of something that had
troubled me vaguely since we’d started back towards
Altapasaeda. This was the less commonly used route
to the south-eastern Castoval, relegated to a back
road by the grand stone bridge known as the Sabre
that the Altapasaedans had constructed. Even taking
that fact into account, I’d have expected more traffic
than we’d seen. Not a soul had passed us. No one
had stopped to gawp at the column of armed men
blocking the road from verge to verge.

Even for a back road, that was curious. More, I
couldn’t deny that it made me a touch uneasy. With
Moaradrid dead and his surviving troops scattered,
shouldn’t everything be returning to normal?
A black-edged cloud drifted over the sun. I cursed
beneath my breath.
“Things were looking up for Easie Damasco,” I
muttered.
At that moment, the road crested a low rise, and
for the first time our objective revealed herself: Altapasaeda, greatest and only city of the Castoval, lay
across the northward horizon like a drunken hussy
sprawled on her divan.
Altapasaeda, grandiose marvel of needlessly
baroque architecture and frivolous design. In theory,
it was the one real intrusion of court-controlled
Pasaeda into the Castoval, the bastion of our Ans
Pasaedan oppressors from beyond the northern border. However, under Panchetto, there’d never been
much in the way of oppression. The Prince had held
little interest in anything that wasn’t edible or quaffable, and had mostly concentrated on ensuring his
life remained a never-ending party – at least until
Moaradrid ended both party and life. In the meantime, his spell on the throne had cost his subjects
little besides the infrequently levied taxes that
funded his indulgences.
All told, I could imagine worse obituaries than He
was a hopeless oppressor, but he could certainly put away
the truffle-stuffed grouse.
“This way,” barked Alvantes. He’d ridden some
distance in front, past the head of the column. “Left

at the junction.”
I struggled to remember what lay to our left. I
vaguely recollected the turn-off he referred to, a dirt
track slanting towards the hills. Somewhere in that
direction lay the road that skirted the western edge
of Altapasaeda, one I’d studiously avoided because it
passed so close to…
Of course. The barracks of the Altapasaedan City
Guard.
So what did Alvantes want at the barracks? I supposed I’d find out soon enough. Then again, given
the difficulty the corner was causing those ahead, it
might be a while yet. The Altapasaedan guardsmen
had swung round easily, but the change of direction
was wreaking confusion amongst the undisciplined
Castovalian Irregulars. There followed much swearing and squabbling, at least until Alvantes angrily
intervened. By the time we got moving again, it was
hard to imagine these were the same men who’d
been singing their hearts out mere minutes ago.
As if on cue, the darkening clouds above chose
that moment to unburden themselves, further
dampening everyone’s mood and entirely soaking
their bodies. The pace picked up immediately.
The westbound road here was confined by banks
of dry earth and shale, already glistening and running in the downpour. We were heading somewhat
upward, and it was difficult to see much through the
cascading water. I knew it couldn’t be far to the barracks, but the journey seemed interminable. Then,
from the head of the column, came the beginnings
of a ragged cheer – that turned rapidly into murmurs

of shock and indignation.
We stopped abruptly.
I couldn’t see anything for the blockade of bodies.
I turned an inquiring glance on Saltlick, whose extra
height should have equated to an increase of perspective. His only reply was a shrug of massive
shoulders. I realised he had no idea what he
expected to see. Left to rely on patience, I made a
few unsuccessful attempts to jump on the spot,
drawing irritated looks from those in front.
Alvantes waited just long enough for my clothes
to become utterly sodden before he called, “Move
on. Keep your eyes open. Tread quietly.”
We did as instructed, so much as was possible in
hammering rain. It was falling so heavily by then
that when the barracks came into view, a bleared
smudge against the hillside, I couldn’t tell what the
fuss was about. It took a brief reprieve in the violence of the shower to make me understand.
The building was a heap of blackened timber.
Estrada had dismounted, off to one side of the
devastation. I hurried over to her. “What’s happened?” I said. “Who did this?”
She shook her head. “I don’t know. I don’t think
Alvantes does either.”
It could have been anyone with a grudge against
the guard. That didn’t exactly narrow the list. However, another more immediate worry had struck me
by then. “Could they still be here?”
“I doubt it. Look at the damage.”
I did – and I saw what she meant. Even in this
downpour, the ruins would still be smoking if the

fire were recent.
I nearly jumped out of my skin when Alvantes,
behind me, said, “It was set a day ago, at least. Still,
I’ve sent scouts out.”
I scowled at him. “So which of your many enemies do you think got there first?”
Speaking to Estrada rather than me, Alvantes said,
“It wasn’t anyone who knew what they were doing.
I suspect there was rain here yesterday as well. The
blaze was doused before it completely took hold and
they didn’t stay to see the job through.”
“Does that mean we could get some shelter?”
Estrada asked hopefully.
“I’ve set men to clearing out the most suitable
rooms.”
“Wait,” I said, more irritable for being ignored,
“what do you mean? Why sit huddling in your
burned-down barracks when we could be safe and
warm in Altapasaeda?”
Alvantes finally looked at me. “Where do you
think whoever burned it most likely came from?”
“I don’t know. Or care. The only thing that’s kept
me sane these last days is the thought of a warm
meal and a soft bed.”
Alvantes wheeled his horse away. “Then I’m sure
that thought can hold you a while longer.”
It wasn’t long before the troops had returned a sizeable space to habitability. Even better, the ruined
portions had supplied enough dry, relatively
uncharred wood for a small fire. With heavy blankets hung over the makeshift doorway – actually a

portion of collapsed wall – and the smoke losing
itself amidst the cloud-laden sky, not even Alvantes
could find anything to complain about.
When his men finally declared the room safe and
allowed me inside, I was surprised to see the body of
what appeared to be a goat spitted over the blaze,
filling the room with a mouth-watering odour.
Given Alvantes’s oft-stated aversion to stealing, it
was anyone’s guess where it had come from.
Regardless, dinner proved some compensation for
my extended drenching. Though the portions of
goat meat were on the stingy side, there was plenty
of hard bread and a kind of salty porridge. If none of
it was particularly appetising, it was warm food on
an empty stomach after a wearisome day’s walking.
Afterwards, I felt somewhat restored, if barely less
soggy or bad-tempered.
Alvantes’s first act after dinner was to call a conference in a small and partially collapsed side room.
In attendance were Estrada, Sub-Captain Gueverro
and two of the guardsmen Alvantes had sent to
scout, as well as two representatives from amongst
the Irregulars. Practically everyone who was anyone
in our party, in fact – except for me.
So that was how it stood. No matter that I’d shed
blood in service of the Castoval, no matter that I
hadn’t stolen anything in days! I still wasn’t good
enough to be part of Alvantes’s precious inner circle.
Looking for someone to complain to, I glanced
about for Saltlick. There was no sign of him. I could
hear the rain still hammering upon the tiled roof;

though it never seemed to bother him, I doubted
he’d rather be outside than in. Eager for a task to
take my mind off Alvantes and his superciliousness,
I decided to track him down.
I slipped beneath the blanket that covered the
inner-facing door, drawing my hood up. The barracks, in its unconflagrated state, had consisted of a
hollowed square of buildings around a large parade
ground. From within that quadrangle, I could see
how the north and east wings had been reduced to
heaps of collapsed stone and jutting black timbers.
On the other two sides, the destruction was more
erratic. As Alvantes had suggested, it was clear how
the fire and rain had fought over the building.
Apart from the area picked for our lodgings, one
other portion had more or less escaped damage.
Though its door and windows had also been covered, I could make out the muffled glow of
torchlight through the heavy cloth. Even before I
drew the curtain, I recognised the musty odours
exhaling from within. It was no surprise to see the
guard horses housed comfortably in their own stalls.
Four guardsmen were in the process of brushing
them down, while half a dozen others laboured in
the half-darkness at the far end, where the fire had
brought down great portions of roof. They’d already
dug free a trapdoor in the cobbled floor and were
busy hauling sacks from the depths. Presumably,
these underground stores were where the bulk of
our evening meal had come from.
As for Saltlick, he’d ensconced himself in the farthest stall, amidst a mound of straw. He was eating

grain from a bucket, scooping it in handfuls and
emptying it into his maw.
“They’re taking care of you, I see.”
Saltlick smiled and nodded. “Good.”
If his vocabulary had improved over the last
weeks, his preferred mode of speech still leaned
towards the concise. On those rare occasions I actually wanted to hold a conversation, it was less than
helpful.
“Alvantes has called a meeting. Needless to say,
we’re not invited.” I sat down next to him. “Another
stop on the way to rescuing your people. I hope it’s
not raining like this where they are. Either way, I
doubt they have a roof over their heads or grain to
eat.”
Saltlick put down his bucket and looked at me
enquiringly.
“I suppose it isn’t anyone’s fault, really. Of course,
the way Alvantes is going on, it could be days before
we set out again.”
He looked crestfallen. “Days?”
“Weeks, even, if Alvantes has his way. It seems
there’s some problem in Altapasaeda. Isn’t there
always? Anyway, no doubt Alvantes will be wading
in to try to sort it out. I wouldn’t be surprised if he
doesn’t rope you into his harebrained scheme.”
Another feature of conversation with Saltlick was
how much of what went through his mind could be
gleaned by watching the play of his crude features.
“Weeks,” he grunted, and his brows crumpled
together. “Help Alvantes,” he added, and the question twitched from eye to eye. Eventually, his face

settled into its usual careless arrangement. “Alvantes
friend. Help if need help.”
I could hardly contain my shock. Not only had
Saltlick taken Alvantes’s side, he’d done it in what
amounted to an entire sentence! Truly, there was no
justice amongst men or giants.
“Well, let’s just hope there’s enough of your
friends left to take home when we finally reach
them,” I said, and marched back out into the rain.
I returned just in time for Alvantes’s speech. I should
have guessed he wouldn’t let the night pass without
one.
He’d stationed himself beside the fire. “Listen,
men!” he bellowed. Then, when the hubbub had
died down, he continued, “As you all now realise,
circumstances in Altapasaeda are not as we left
them. Clearly, those of us who are guardsmen have
a responsibility to investigate. For the rest of you,
your help will be welcomed if you’re willing to give
it… though I’ll blame no one who chooses otherwise.”
He paused, let this sink in. “A few of us will travel
on to the Suburbs in hope of gathering more information. I’ll send back news and further orders when
I have them. In the meantime – keep sentries, stay
out of sight, avoid wearing guard livery or weapons
if you do need to go out. If we have enemies in Altapasaeda, our one advantage is that they don’t know
we’ve returned. Good luck to you all.”
Estrada, appearing beside me, put voice to the
question I was in the process of asking myself. “Are

you coming with us, Easie?”
“Am I invited?”
“Of course. Alvantes mentioned you specifically.”
I didn’t like the sound of that. Nor had I forgiven
Alvantes for excluding me from his stupid meeting.
Then again, there was nothing behind me but the
occasional two-goat village. I could rent a decent bed
in the Altapasaedan Suburbs, and travel on from
there to anywhere in the Castoval. “I’ll come,” I
decided. “Better that than a sleepless night in this
half-demolished barn.”
By the time I went outside, the rain had stopped.
But the heavy cloud remained, leaving the moon a
dim smear of brightness and shutting out all but a
few stray stars. Alvantes had a dozen guardsmen
gathered round him, including Sub-Captain Gueverro, and all were now dressed in anonymous grey
cloaks.
“What I told the men counts just as much for us,”
he told Estrada, who’d followed behind me. “Until
we know what we’re dealing with, we’ll keep a low
profile.”
“What about Saltlick?” I asked. “Low profiles
aren’t exactly his forte.”
Saltlick, who was just then squeezing his way out
through the hole in the wall, proved my point by
dislodging a sizeable chunk of masonry. Sheepishly,
he stood brushing stone-dust from his shoulders.
“We agreed we’d bring him with us,” hissed
Estrada. I realised the words were aimed at Alvantes
rather than myself, and that I’d hit upon an already

debated sore point.
“We will,” he replied defensively. “I’ll think of
something.”
I couldn’t entirely blame Alvantes for not wanting
Saltlick along. A dozen disguised guardsmen might
pass unnoticed, but a giant striding by tended to
draw comment. Sooner or later, Alvantes was bound
to decide Saltlick was too much of a liability. Judging
from Estrada’s reprimand, maybe he already had.
Two of Alvantes’s guardsmen went back inside.
When they returned, they were leading a column of
horses, assisted by the men set to work in the stables. One of them handed me the reins of a
drowsy-eyed bay mare. Since it was evident we’d be
spending time together and that both of us would
rather have been allowed to catch some sleep, I
decided we should be friends. I patted her muzzle,
and received a weary whinny in reply.
We set out in single file, not back the way we’d
come but following the road around to the northeast, which would eventually twist back to make its
way along Altapasaeda’s western edge. Even in daytime, we’d be unlikely to be seen by anyone, for the
only entrance on that side of the city was the small
gate reserved for the comings and goings of the
guard.
However, as soon as the walls came back into
sight, Alvantes motioned a halt. “Off the road,” he
told us. “Stay in the shadows.”
Everyone moved to comply, with varying degrees
of success. Even knelt on his haunches, no patch of
gloom was big enough to hide Saltlick in his

entirety.
“Damasco,” said Alvantes, “come with me.”
“What? Why me?”
“Because it’s time you started pulling your weight.
And because your insight into the underbelly of
Altapasaeda might prove useful.”
I wondered what Alvantes was up to that required
knowledge of Altapasaeda’s underbelly. “I see. You’ll
look down on me for being a thief until the day
comes when you need a thief.”
“When did I say I’d stopped looking down on
you?”
“Then maybe you should carry out your little mission on your own.”
“Unfortunately,” he said, holding up his stump, “it
requires assets I currently lack.”
Damn him, had he really sunk to that? “Fine. I
suppose I can spare you a few minutes.” It took all
my willpower not to say, lend you a hand.
Alvantes climbed down from the saddle, as did I.
“The rest of you, stay here,” he said. “We won’t be
long.”
Alvantes followed the road for a few paces, before
abandoning it in favour of a rough path curling off
to his left. I followed at a distance, insulting him
steadily beneath my breath. It wasn’t long before the
path had deteriorated to little more than an animal
trail over rocks made slippery by the downpour;
only then did I give up my muffled cursing, to concentrate on not twisting an ankle.
Perhaps a quarter of an hour had passed before
Alvantes held up his one hand. We were some way

up the hillside, with an outcrop of dark rock at our
backs and other smaller boulders lined haphazardly
in front, interspersed with bedraggled bushes and
the occasional lopsided tree. Where there were gaps,
I could just make out the walls of Altapasaeda
beyond, their highest point now somewhat below
us.
“See there?” Alvantes said. His voice was low,
though it was impossible anyone could hear us.
I followed his pointing finger. Two figures were
just visible upon the parapet of the small northern
gatehouse, lit by a glimmer of torchlight. “Barely.”
Alvantes reached into his saddlebag, drew out a
narrow metal tube about the length of his forearm.
“Try this.”
All my irritation at being dragged up there in the
dark and cold vanished immediately. “Is that what I
think it is?”
“If you think it’s a telescope.”
“Where did you ever come across that?”
“From my father. It was a farewell gift.”
I took it from him, trying to keep my fingers from
trembling. The telescope was worth all the money in
my purse and more. To my knowledge, no one in
the Castoval or Ans Pasaeda had quite figured out
how to make them, and the few floating around had
originated in some distant land or other. I’d seen one
once in Aspira Nero, much larger than this; but actually to use one was another thing altogether. I
gasped as I pressed it to my eye and the distant walls
sprang into focus. It took me a few disorientating
moments to find the two figures, but once I did, it

was as though they were standing just before me.
Whatever they were wearing, it wasn’t guard livery. One was smartly dressed, with a cape over a
brigandine of leather armour, an insignia on the
breast. The other wore a full cloak with the hood
drawn up. It didn’t disguise his bulk. Of the two, he
stood at least a hand taller, and was even broader in
the shoulder. From the way he slouched against the
battlements, he had none of his companion’s discipline. In fact, the two had nothing obviously in
common except their position, and their postures
suggested both were aware of that fact.
Once I was certain I’d seen all there was to see, I
turned back to Alvantes. He held out his hand, and
I grudgingly placed the telescope in it. If and when
we parted ways, it would definitely be coming with
me.
“The leftmost is likely a retainer from one of the
wealthy families,” I said, and described his uniform.
“Likely a house guard for the Orvetta family. The
other?”
“Could be anyone. If I had to guess, though… he’s
big and he likes to keep his face hidden. They don’t
trust each other one little bit. I’d say he’s muscle for
one of the city gangs.”
Alvantes nodded.
“You don’t look surprised,” I said.
“I’m not. It’s what I expected. I only wish it
wasn’t.”
We hurriedly rejoined the others. “There are sentries
on the walls,” Alvantes told them. “Our priority is to

get past without being identified. We’ll travel fast,
but don’t risk the horses. If you can’t keep pace,
whistle.”
He swung into the saddle and the rest of us followed his example. Hardly glancing to see whether
anyone was following, he set off into the blackness
ahead.
Under normal circumstances, it was quicker by far
to cut through the city than to take this narrow,
winding back road around its western side. As such,
it was little more than a dirt track in places, pitted
and overgrown. Negotiating it at speed in utter
blackness was only a little shy of suicide.
Unfortunately, I had no say in the matter. Saltlick,
capable of matching any horse with his huge strides,
was crashing along close behind me. Watching
Estrada, just ahead, gave me my only indication of
the road’s twists and turns. As every moment threatened to hurl me from the saddle, I struggled against
rising panic. The damp wind stung my face; tears
blinded me to even the few dim stars. Even if I could
have pursed my lips, no one could possibly have
heard me whistle. Worst was the feeling of falling.
Plunging into blackness, my mind threw up the
image of a gaping pit and held it.
All I could do was grip my mount’s reins with all
my strength and struggle to believe she knew what
she was doing. She was a guard horse. Surely, she
knew this road. Likely, she remembered every pit
and rut.
She didn’t let me down. After a while, I even
began to relax a fraction – as much as was possible

when hurtling through pitch-darkness on a road
with no right to the name. I even dared to look up.
There were the walls, close on our right. There was
the gatehouse. Above, I could just see the sentries’
torchlight. It bobbed and weaved, perhaps responding to our passage. Someone called out, the words
whipped into nonsense by the wind. Then we were
past.
The guards must have seen us. Or – they’d have
seen riders. Perhaps only heard our horses. We
could have been anyone. Unless, of course, they’d
happened to pick out one particular silhouette, fully
twice the size of any man.
Even once we were in the clear, it was a long time
before Alvantes called, “Rein in! Stop here.” Motioning towards a muddy side road, he summoned two
of the guardsmen with a snapped, “Panchez, Duero,
follow me,” and to Gueverro, added, “Be watchful,
Sub-Captain.”
They weren’t gone long. Their return was heralded by ear-racking sounds of squeaking and
braying. When they came into view, Panchez was
leading Duero’s mount and Duero was guiding a
mule, which in turn drew a small, ramshackle cart.
The look Estrada gave Alvantes was questioning
to the point of accusation.
“Borrowed,” he said, not meeting her eye.
I smirked. Interesting how it had a different name
when guard-captains did it.
To Saltlick, he added a curt, “Get in, please.”
Saltlick eyed the vehicle uncertainly. Alvantes had
used this trick to smuggle him out of Altapasaeda,

but that had been in a large wagon full of straw, not
a donkey-cart covered with a scrappy tarpaulin.
Nevertheless, with considerable effort and obvious
discomfort, Saltlick managed to scrunch himself into
the back. Once he was settled, Duero drew the tarpaulin over. To my trained eye, the end the result
looked much like an extremely cramped giant covered with an extremely small sheet.
“That should fool anyone,” I said. “So long as
they’re blind. Or stupid. Or a very great distance
away.”
Alvantes glared at me. “All the more reason to
hurry.”
However, the cart, amongst its many failings, had
been designed for neither speed nor the weight of
giants. It was a long and miserable hour later before
we turned east into the outskirts of the Altapasaedan
Suburbs.
The Suburbs was so called because Altapasaedans
didn’t like to use the word “slum”. The choice of
nomenclature did nothing to change its nature. It
was a dingy and ever-changing shanty town, sprung
up long ago in the lee of the north wall and somehow never made permanent. In short, it was
everything Altapasaeda wasn’t: poor, filthy, tumbledown and given over to degrees of crime that the
guard hardly bothered to interfere with.
Or so I’d always thought. We hadn’t travelled far
through the mazy streets before we came to a building more solidly constructed than those around it –
built of sturdy timber, rather than wood that looked
as if it had been dragged from the river, and with a

door that would resist anything shy of a battering
ram.
Alvantes dismounted and rapped three times, followed by two short taps, a pause, and one last
knock. After a few moments, the door swung open,
a slit at first and then fully. A swarthy, dark-eyed
man stood in the gap. As he turned his head, I saw
that the whole left side of his otherwise handsome
face was puckered by white blotches of scarring.
“Guard-Captain,” he said. “It’s good to see you, sir.
With the stories flying around, I wasn’t sure I would
again.”
“Not here, Navare.” Alvantes turned to the rest of
us. “Quickly… get the giant inside.”
To his credit, Navare barely looked shocked when
Duero whipped the tarpaulin back and Saltlick
began to unfold himself from the cart. He was certainly quick enough to move out of the way,
though.
“Gueverro, Estrada, Damasco, go in. Duero, see
that the cart’s returned – discreetly, please. The rest
of you, find stabling for the horses. Not all in the
same place if you can avoid it.”
Navare greeted each of us with a tilt of his head as
we went by, and to Gueverro said, “Good to see you,
too, sir.”
The interior consisted of a single room. If it was
large for the Suburbs, it was small by any other standards, housing only a camp bed, a stove and a table.
The low ceiling left Saltlick no option but to squat in
the middle of the floor, and his presence left precious
little space for the rest of us.

Closing the door, Alvantes said, “I know you’ll
have questions, Navare, but they’ll have to wait.
These are my travelling companions. The giant is
Saltlick. This is Marina Estrada, mayor of Muena
Palaiya. Easie Damasco… well, no doubt you
remember the name.” To the rest of us, he
explained, “Navare acts for the guard’s interests in
the Suburbs.”
Navare offered a lopsided grin. “A suitably
ambiguous description of a particularly ill-defined
role.”
“The guard always had explicit orders from the
Prince not to make its presence felt in the Suburbs.
I followed those orders, of course – to the letter.
Navare is a gatherer of information, and a discreet
solver of certain kinds of problem.”
Navare’s grin widened. “Well put, sir.”
“I trust you’ve been keeping up your duties in our
absence?”
Abruptly, all humour vanished from Navare’s
expression. “Of course, Guard-Captain. But truth be
told, I doubt I’ve found much you haven’t already
guessed. There are rumours aplenty, but facts are
tough to come by.”
“Go on.”
“Well… four days ago, a contingent of
Moaradrid’s troops entered the city. Soon after, all
the gates were barricaded from the inside. I’ve seen
northern soldiers, family retainers and men I recognise from the gangs, all apparently working
together. The place is sealed up tighter than a priestess’s…” Remembering Estrada’s presence, Navare

caught himself and finished weakly, “No one’s been
in or out, sir, except I heard they destroyed the barracks – and even that they did at night.”
“I didn’t know about the troops. I’d hoped they’d
flee back north,” said Alvantes darkly. “That makes
it even worse.”
“What about the families?” asked Estrada. “Even
with Panchetto gone, would they really be desperate
enough to side with criminals?”
“They think of themselves as Ans Pasaedans, even
after all these years,” replied Alvantes. “To them,
Altapasaeda is an island surrounded by enemies. The
gangs are as Castovalian as anyone else, and more
dangerous than most. On their own initiative, it’s
the last thing they’d do.”
I thought I followed his implication. “So if it’s not
their own idea, it’s someone else’s,” I said.
“I’ve heard word there’s one man pulling the
strings,” agreed Navare. “If it’s true, he’s doing a
damn fine job of keeping his name quiet.”
I was beginning to see why Alvantes was so worried.
Combined, the household retainers of the many
wealthy northern families numbered in the hundreds. Working apart, they’d always kept each other
in check. Working together, they amounted to a military force perhaps half the size of the one
Moaradrid had invaded with, and considerably better trained and equipped.
Add to that Altapasaeda’s sizable criminal underground and the dregs of Moaradrid’s army. Now
have them put aside their differences in favour of

some common goal. What did that leave you?
It left an army.
And if that army was guided by a single individual, there was a good chance we’d done nothing but
exchange one would-be tyrant for another.
“Whoever he is, he’s smart,” said Alvantes, breaking in upon my thoughts. “Keeping the city bottled
up will make the families even more paranoid, and
everyone on the outside too.” He glanced behind
him, as though he could somehow see the city
through the intervening wood. “It seems the only
concrete answers lie within those walls.”
“Getting inside would be tricky,” said Navare. “I’d
try it myself, but if they caught me and traced me
back to the guard…”
“Yes. That could prove difficult. Better to keep our
presence secret for as long as we can.”
“They’ll be watching the bridge and the wharfs.”
“I think there’s a way. It wouldn’t be pleasant, but
it might work. It would take someone who knew the
city, who was familiar with its seamier side. Someone with contacts on the inside, who could pass
unnoticed. Someone…”
“Hey,” I said. “Stop looking at me like that.”
For Alvantes’s eyes were firmly fixed on me, and
everyone else’s had swung to follow. “Why, Damasco?” he said. “You wanted to spend a night in
Altapasaeda so badly. Now here’s your chance.”

CHAPTER TWO

“I get it, I really do. Coalition of dangerous forces,
shadowy figure lurking in background pulling
strings. I’ve followed all that. It’s quite a problem
you have here, Alvantes. Do you know what else I
followed? It isn’t my problem.”
Estrada looked at me in horror. “Damasco… if
Altapasaeda’s in trouble, it’s everyone’s problem.”
“You see, I’d swear I just covered that point.
Alvantes’s, yes. Mine, not at all. Not yours, either,
Estrada, and definitely not Saltlick’s. I say, back off,
let the dust settle. There’s a fair chance the families
and the gangs will fall out and kill each other off,
probably sooner rather than later. The streets might
run red for a day or two, but after that everything
will go back to normal. They’ll welcome you with
open arms, Alvantes. You can be the hero of the
hour.”
Not one of the faces turned on mine showed any
hint of agreement. Saltlick’s bemused smile came
closest, but I was confident it meant he simply

wasn’t following the conversation. How could they
be so stupid? Altapasaeda was like an hysterical
child; always wailing over something, only to forget
it the moment a new threat or annoyance distracted
its minuscule attention. This current crisis, whatever
its true nature, was bound to pass the same way.
Well, I wasn’t about to let weight of numbers convince me to sign on for Alvantes’s suicide plan. I’d
started off with flat refusal; moved through anger,
abuse, self-ridicule; listed the failings that made me
so unsuited to the job; returned to stubborn negation; spent half an hour cataloguing the deficiencies
in his logic… on and on, until I began to suspect I’d
win by simply dying of exhaustion.
No such luck. Now I only had one argument left –
the most obvious, the one I’d found myself shying
away from again and again. “The fact is, Alvantes,
I’m through jeopardising my life to solve other people’s problems. I’m leaving.”
“I can’t stop you,” said Alvantes.
“That’s right. You can’t.”
“But I can make sure that bag of stolen coins
you’ve been carrying around doesn’t go with you.”
I winced. “It’s mine. I’ve earned it.” And I had.
Stealing from half a dozen of Panchetto’s guests in a
single night had been no easy feat.
“A room full of guardsmen says different.”
There it was, as inevitable as dying. There was a
basic incompatibility in how Alvantes and I viewed
the world, and the bag of money in my pocket was
a prime example of that. I couldn’t leave without it.
I couldn’t walk away empty-handed. Doing that

meant returning to the life I’d been leading – a life
that had left me desperate enough to try stealing
food from a notoriously homicidal invading warlord.
“This is the last time,” I said. “This cleans the slate.
You don’t throw my past in my face. You forget
about the money. If I do this, Alvantes, it gets you
off my back until the end of time.”
It was all the more frustrating that he didn’t even
pause to consider. “All right,” he said. “A clean
slate.”
“And the coin stays with me. I might need it in
there.”
“You keep a quarter. The rest back when you
return with answers.”
“A third. Anything I spend in bribes, you refund.”
“Agreed.”
Far too late, I saw it. Alvantes had known how
this conversation would end before he’d ever started
it. Moreover, whatever the reasons he’d given for
choosing me, it was the one he hadn’t said that
clinched it. Guardsmen’s lives mattered. Mine was
expendable.
I felt the first fluttering of panic. Here, then, was
the price of my future. One last gamble. One final
job.
In my line of work, those never went well.
We’d waited through the remainder of the night and
the next day. The hours had passed interminably. I’d
slept a little, in bursts that always ended with me
starting awake, heart vibrating with vague fear.
Navare had fed us, but I’d hardly tasted the watery

stew he’d served up, or managed to stomach very
much of it. Alvantes’s men went out in small groups
throughout the day, no doubt to listen for news
from within the city. No one spoke much. Even
Saltlick, sitting hunched in a corner, looked moody
and dejected.
I was almost glad when the time came. Risking
my neck couldn’t be worse than another minute in
that cramped and increasingly ill-smelling room. My
relief lasted fully as long as it took Alvantes to insist
he be the one to accompany me. Anyone else would
have had the decency at least to pretend they
weren’t keeping tabs on me.
Even long after dark, the Suburbs were a riot of
activity. Drinking, gambling and whoring were by
far the most popular local activities, and none of
those suffered from a lack of daylight. I hoped no
one noticed the frown of disgust Alvantes wore
beneath his hood as we wandered through the narrow, torchlit streets.
As it turned out, however, no one seemed eager
to pay us any attention. Everyone we passed was
conspicuously keeping to themselves, and looked
shiftier than was required even for the Suburbs.
Time and again, I noticed how their eyes darted
towards the looming city walls.
“They’re nervous,” I whispered to Alvantes, when
no one was close. “Scared of the city.”
“Perhaps they’re right to be.”
It was busier still by the waterside, for that was
where the majority of drinking dens were to be
found. Away from those havens of local culture,

however, the din of shouted conversation died to a
murmur. It wasn’t too difficult to find a spot where
we were out of sight – which made stealing a boat
that much easier.
“We’re not stealing,” muttered Alvantes. “We’re
borrowing.”
“That distinction means a lot to you, doesn’t it?”
“More than it ever has to you.”
Many of the Suburb-dwellers kept decrepit coracles and rowboats, for communing with passing river
barges and fishing useful debris from the Casto
Mara. We settled for a mould-blackened skiff that
looked as though it might at least last the night.
Even then, it floated much as a drunkard would
walk, and leaked more than seemed reasonable.
“I mentioned your plan is idiotic.”
“Quiet, Damasco. They’ll be watching the bridge.”
The Sabre, the Castoval’s largest river crossing,
continued the northward boundary into Altapasaeda
begun by the walls. It was the only entrance to the
city not gated, which meant barricades and armed
men if you wanted to keep unwelcome visitors out.
Alvantes was right, of course; as we entered its vast
shadow, I thought I could hear voices drifting
through the stonework overhead.
Of course, the first, most obviously cretinous flaw
in Alvantes’s so-called plan was that if they were
watching the Sabre, there would certainly be archers
guarding the dockside. I’d already decided that if we
were spotted I’d take my chances in the river and
hope the effort of perforating Alvantes kept them
distracted long enough for me to make my escape.

Then again, perhaps Alvantes wasn’t quite the
idiot I frequently took him for. Beneath the Sabre,
he manoeuvred us towards the bank, until we were
close enough that our oar blades almost brushed the
naked stone. Though we’d slipped from the impenetrable shadow beneath the bridge, we remained
hidden by the harbour wall, higher here than where
it dipped for the landing stages further on. Unless
someone was directly above and looking down, we’d
remain invisible.
We were drawing close to the most objectionable
part of Alvantes’s scheme. Even if I hadn’t known
what to look for, the smell would have been a sure
giveaway. It was a good job in a way, for the closer
we drew, the more my eyes watered, until I could
barely see at all. Through the tears, I could just make
out a large round hole, levelled into a channel at the
bottom. Something far too thick and viscous to be
water flowed from its mouth into the river below.
Of the virtues that made Altapasaeda unique, its
sewers were the least spoken of. I suspected the
wealthy brought them up in only the most drunken
moments of dinner-party braggadocio. There was no
question they were impressive in their way, though.
I understood how much skill and thought must have
gone into their construction – to harness two underground tributaries of the Casto Mara, to force them
into the distasteful function of evacuating waste
from the South Bank manors and the palace and
temples further west.
But some marvels were better appreciated at a distance – or not at all. Maybe there really were things

in life more important than money. “Turn around,”
I said. “I can’t do it.”
“Keep your voice down! You can and will.”
Whispering made it even harder not to gag. “The
smell…”
“You’ll get used to it.”
“How do you know? When have you ever done
this?”
“You’d be surprised.”
I tore my eyes from the reeking outlet to look at
him. “You’re serious.”
“There’s more to being Guard-Captain of Altapasaeda than someone like you could understand.”
“There you go again. Someone like me. That’s the
last one you get, Alvantes.”
I crouched, grasped the first of the metal rungs
driven into the wall, swung myself over. If Alvantes
could crawl through a sewer then Easie Damasco
could as well.
In the instant it took me to realise how absurd
that logic was, Alvantes had already turned the boat
around.
“Hey!”
“Remember… I’ll wait under the bridge. Whistle
three times.”
“Hold on…”
Our muted conversation was interrupted by the
rap of footsteps on the cobbles above, distant but
drawing nearer. I cursed foully beneath my breath.
There was only one place to hide. It was the sewer
or handing myself over to whomever was approaching on the harbour wall.

Even then, I had to think hard about it.
Alvantes had given me a cloth to tie around my
mouth and nose. It couldn’t have helped less. The
stink was dizzying. I could taste it, as though it plastered my throat and tongue. I could even feel it, a
physical force buffeting me. It was impossible to
break it down into component stenches. Yet every
few moments a particular odour – rotten cabbage,
spoiled meat, week-old slops – would force its way
through the general miasma. The only constant was
the reek of human waste.
I moved crab-wise, back pressed to the wall. Not
that the wall was anything like clean, but it was as
far as I could get from the central channel. The
stones beneath my feet were wet with slime – or
what I chose to consider slime. My worst fear was
that I’d lose my balance and plunge into that evilsmelling stream. The very thought made me want to
scream. If I could have done it without opening my
mouth, I might have.
(Alvantes had refused me a light. “Believe me,
Damasco, you don’t want a naked flame down
there.”
“Then how exactly am I supposed to find my
way?”
“It isn’t far. You can’t go wrong.”)
After minutes that seemed like hours, I was certain I’d done exactly that. I couldn’t see the pale
glimmer from the entrance any more. I couldn’t see
anything. There was only me, the wall, and the
stench, wrapped like a living presence around me.
Then I took another step, the wall behind me disap-

peared, and I really did scream. I tripped backwards,
as the stink climbed into my throat.
My hands found something cold and hard. I spun
round, too close to vomiting to feel relief. I reached
up. Sure enough, there was another rung.
I flung myself up the ladder hammered into the
wall, discovered the trapdoor at its top by crashing
my head against it. For one horrible moment I was
sure it wouldn’t budge. However, one firm shove,
with my hand this time, was all it took. I hauled
myself the last distance, slammed the hatch behind
me and flopped to the ground, panting blissfully
fresh air.
I’d come out in a closed courtyard, hemmed in by
three low buildings and a shallow wall on the fourth
side. One of those houses must belong to the poor
wretch who maintained this stretch of sewer.
Though it felt as if ages had passed, I couldn’t be far
from the river. Likely I was somewhere in the Lower
Market District.
Once I had my breath back and the worst of the
sewer’s aftertaste had passed, I scrambled to the top
of the wall to get my bearings. Beyond was a narrow
alley, opening onto a wider concourse to my right
and another passageway to my left. If neither looked
entirely familiar in the darkness, I still had a fair
sense of where I must be.
Having satisfied myself no one was nearby, I
dropped down the far side of the wall. One advantage of my revoltingly unusual route into the city
was that nobody would be eager to ask me questions. Then again, they might just skip the

interrogation and move straight to grievous wounding. All told, the main roads were a bad idea.
I opted instead for the passageway. It led roughly
northward by my reckoning, in the direction of the
walls. Those were something else I’d do well to
avoid; but if my remembered map of the city was
correct, I wouldn’t be travelling anything like that
far. In small recompense for its horrors, the sewer
had deposited me almost on the doorstep of the
address I sought.
Sure enough, I soon passed through a cramped
courtyard I recognised, and from there ducked into
a dead-end lane, whose ramshackle houses leaned
madly inward as though eager to touch roofs. Everything about those crumbling abodes spoke of
poverty and desperation. In most cases, that was
undoubtedly what lay behind their crooked portals.
The door I opted for, however, was sturdy and – to
the trained eye – double-locked and reinforced.
Though its occupant wasn’t quite rich, the penury of
his location was carefully chosen and studiously
maintained.
I rapped three times. After a few moments, a narrow hatch slid open, just wide enough for a pair of
wrinkle-skewed eyes to peep through the gap.
“Hello, Franco,” I said.
Franco had been old when I first came to Altapasaeda. He’d been around for so long that there
were those who claimed he’d invented the very concept of crime. However, to say his best days were
behind him was an understatement. They were so
far in the past that probably even he didn’t remem-

ber them. It didn’t stop him from keeping a voracious eye on the city’s underworld, though – that
being the first and most crucial reason I’d sought
him out.
“Easie Damasco,” he said. “Not a face I ever
expected to see again. Not still attached to your
body, at any rate.”
“Not dying is becoming my trademark.”
“Strange, though.” Franco wrinkled his nose.
“You smell like you’ve been dead for a week. Dead
and rotting in a sewer.”
“Partly true, at any rate. Can I come in?”
The disembodied eyes looked me up and down. “I
think not.”
“I have money.”
He considered again; the rectangle of wizened face
tilted to one side. Finally, I heard the sound of locks
being opened, and a bar being shifted aside. The
door opened a crack. “Then you can buy a new
cloak and boots before we go any further,” he said.
“Fine by me.” Franco was one of the better outfitters for criminal endeavours in Altapasaeda. That
was the second reason I’d come here. It made sense
to combine my mission with a little shopping expedition. Over the last few months, I’d hocked or lost
most of the accoutrements of my trade, and I felt
oddly naked without them. In any case, it wouldn’t
hurt to be prepared for whatever trials my enforced
mission threw up.
I wasn’t convinced Franco was in any position to
offer me sartorial advice, though. He wore a stained
and faded poncho over a shirt once gaudily pink,

now mostly grey, and – although he was indoors
and it was night – a wide-brimmed hat, slanted rakishly upon his snow-white hair. It bobbed
dangerously as he led me down a narrow passage
and through another locked door, and almost tumbled off altogether when, in the tiny room beyond,
he ducked to unlock a hatch in the floor. Franco
only clasped his hat decorously, unhooked a lantern
from the wall and started down into the shadows.
I’d been fortunate enough to witness the wonder
that was Franco’s Cellar of Crime on a couple of
occasions before now. If anything, it was more
astonishing and overstocked than ever. Not a single
bare brick could be seen, and there was barely floor
space enough to manoeuvre through the trove.
Franco’s stock consisted mostly of clothing, armour
and a quite staggering range of weapons. Amidst
these more predictable items, however, were countless less obvious accessories of the criminal trades:
caltrops, poisons and acids, mantraps and snares,
face paints and false beards, paste gemstones… it
was enough to make my head spin.
Forcing my attention to the racks of clothing, my
eye fell immediately on a full cloak of deepest charcoal grey. There were other, showier outfits, but
they were all in black, a shade guaranteed to stand
out on even the darkest night and reserved for foppish would-be thieves.
“That one. The grey,” I said, and couldn’t help
feeling a little pleased at the twinkle of approval in
Franco’s rheumy gaze.
I added a shirt and trousers of similar colour, and

a particularly dapper pair of boots. I completed the
outfit with a short, narrow-bladed dagger that
sheathed neatly against my hip. It wasn’t a weapon
for fighting, but it had the potental to give someone
a nasty surprise.
When I’d finished changing, Franco had me stuff
my old clothes into a sack, pointing out that, “It will
make them less bothersome to burn.”
I looked around the overburdened walls, trying to
guess what else I might need. “I’ll take that rucksack,
as well,” I said, “two – no, three – sets of lock picks,
needle and thread if you have them, and a length of
your finest climbing rope.”
Franco plucked a coil down from a hook. “How’s
this? Hawser-laid single line, a sisal core with cotton
overwrap. I made the grapnel myself, you won’t find
a better.”
“Excellent.” I took it, crammed it into the pack
with my other purchases.
“That’ll be three onyxes. I’ve rounded up, since
you’ve left me the task of exterminating your revolting cast-offs.”
He’d rounded up by at least an onyx, but I didn’t
have time to argue. As I handed over the coins, I
said, “There’s one more in it for you if you’ll share a
little information.”
Franco eyed me slantwise from beneath his
absurd hat. “Go on.”
“What’s been happening to the city these last few
days… do you know who’s behind it?”
“Of course I know. I also know what he’d do to
me if he found out I’d talked to you.”

Encouraged by my new outfit, I struck my most
threatening pose. “And what do you think I’ll do?”
“Damasco, I’ve known you since you were barely
old enough to pickpocket. You’ll talk a lot, eventually realise you’re as intimidating as cold soup, and
give up.”
He had me there. “Look, Franco, I’m in a fix. I
need answers. Alvantes is leaning on me and…”
“What?” Franco looked at me with horror.
“You’re working with the Boar? Have you gone
completely mad, boy? We both know people who’d
gut you for just saying his name.”
“It’s a long story. One I’d like to end sooner rather
than later. If you could just give me something to go
on, point me in the right direction…”
Franco shook his head wearily. “All right, all
right,” he said. “I heard a rumour… something going
down on the South Bank, some kind of a meet. I
don’t know where and I wouldn’t tell you if I did.”
“Thanks, Franco.” I offered him the fourth coin.
“I haven’t done you any favours. The city’s under
curfew. If anyone sees you, they’ll kill you on sight.
You want advice worth paying for? Get out of Altapasaeda. Never look back.”
“You know Alvantes. He’d track me down if it was
the last thing he did. Still. I appreciate you looking
out for me, Franco.”
“They can cut your throat and dump you in the
river for all I care,” he said, starting back up the stairs
with the noxious sack containing my old clothes
slung over one shoulder. “I just don’t want you stirring things up, that’s all. They’re more than bad

enough already.”
From the edge in his voice, I could tell he meant
it. In fact – and this shocked me more than almost
anything could have – he sounded scared. What did
it take to unnerve Franco? He was the closest anyone could be to untouchable in the world of
Altapasaedan crime. He’d been staring down death
for as long as I’d been alive.
As he let me out the front door, I said, “I’ll be careful, Franco.”
“You won’t. But try, for all our sakes,” he said –
and the door slammed shut.
It was some distance to the South Bank, almost the
breadth of the city. Worse, I could hardly hurry, or
take the main roads. I moved through back alleys
wherever I could, jogging from shadow to shadow
and each time pausing to listen, straining my eyes
against the darkness.
Once I had to duck into an arch as riders thundered by. Twice I had to sneak past groups of armed
men lurking in the shadows. Both times, they were
clustered at a junction, where they could see in all
directions. Had they been paying more attention to
their work and less to talking and drinking, I
wouldn’t have stood a chance.
As it was, I felt my success vindicated my choice
of cloak, and of the boots, which made nary a
squeak upon the cobbles. Still, it was taxing on my
nerves. The guard had never been this fastidious, or
the city this well manned. Someone was making a
point – keeping Altapasaeda safe, whether Alta-

pasaedans liked it or not.
Only when I came out on the edge of the South
Bank did I realise my problems had barely begun.
The South Bank was as well lit as anywhere in Altapasaeda, and didn’t contain anything even
approaching an alley. In fact, the street I’d reached
was a wide, tree-lined boulevard, with no hint of
cover except the widely spaced openings of mansion
compounds.
I heard footsteps.
The curfew had one advantage. It told me that
anyone on the streets must be there for a good reason. A confident step would have been bad news,
but this was anything but, a rapid, anxious tip-tap. I
darted round the corner of an archway, trampling
some noble’s prized flowerbeds in the process. The
footsteps drew nearer. I caught the briefest flash of
a figure: well dressed though graceless, tall but
hunched against the night cold.
I gave him a half-dozen more paces before I
stepped out. “Off to the meeting?”
He jumped back, made a noise that sounded like
“Wuuh?”
“I should walk with you. Safety in numbers.”
Encouraged by my new outfit, I did an ample job of
making it sound like a threat.
“What… ah… do I know you?”
I looked him up and down. My initial impression
had been spot on. He was gaunt and fretful, a few
years older than me and impeccably dressed. He had
the peculiar accent unique to the Altapasaedan
wealthy, but with a nervous tremor all his own. I

doubted very much if he’d ever done a minute’s
work in his life, or anything as dangerous as walking
the streets alone at night.
One thing more: he hadn’t contradicted me when
I mentioned the meeting. That meant there was a
good chance my guess was correct. “I doubt it,” I
said. “I don’t think we’ve mixed in the same circles.
Not until recently, at any rate.”
“I haven’t seen you at the other conferences,” he
replied, struggling for something approaching
authority.
“I’ve been caught up in some business. Only just
found time to get in on the act.”
My new companion looked nervous. “I can’t
imagine he liked that.”
“Oh, he was understanding. We go way back.”
He looked at me with mingled horror and respect.
Then, catching himself, he said, “Well, no time to
waste, eh?”
“No time at all,” I agreed.
He hurried on, and I paced nonchalantly beside
him, as though it were the most natural thing in the
world that we’d be taking a stroll together through
the nocturnal streets. Still, I couldn’t think of anything in the way of casual conversation that would
be in keeping with my tough-guy act. I was glad
when we turned into a side road and he exclaimed,
with a nervous laugh, “Well, here we are.”
I pulled my hood up and dropped back, just out of
sight of my companion but close enough that anyone would assume we were together. One hint of
trouble and I’d run. That was the length and breadth

of my plan – one whisper of suspicion and I’d flee as
I’d never fled before.
Ahead, an open gateway led into one of the
smaller estates. Three men stood on guard. I tried
not to look at them too closely. Nevertheless, it was
easy to see what they represented. One was a uniformed family retainer, the second a scimitar-armed
northerner with a beaded mane of hair and beard,
the third an anonymous thug of the kind the city
was so well stocked with. In short, they perfectly
embodied the three factions involved in Altapasaeda’s sudden change of fortunes.
My companion hurried forward, only to nearly
trip over his feet before the guards. “Lord Rufio
Eldunzi. Of the family Eldunzi.”
“Boss said come alone,” grunted the thug, with a
tilt of the head in my direction.
“Oh no,” stuttered Eldunzi, “he’s, ah…”
I was ready to flee – more than ready. Yet at the
last moment, words came bubbling unsummoned
from my mouth. “Don’t mind him, my lord,” I said.
“He’s just a lowlife with ideas above his station.”
Suddenly, it was all very simple. The thug would
kill me on the spot, or else he’d back down. It all
depended on how high the weak-kneed cretin
beside me featured in the pecking order. If he was
some nobody lordling hanging off the bottom of the
invite list, I was as good as dead.
“‘Pologies, milord. Go on in.”
I don’t know who was more relieved, me or
Eldunzi – but I’d like to think I hid it better. Eldunzi
practically sprinted down the gravelled carriageway,

while I did my best to follow at a reasonable pace.
He ignored a grandiose coach house and the manor’s
porticoed main entrance, carried on towards a
smaller doorway. As he ducked inside, I was close on
his heels.
Within, a long hall was lit by flickering oil lamps set
around the walls. Benches had been set up in the
main space and were already almost full. Perhaps forty
persons occupied those seats, and despite the copious
cushions, not one of them looked comfortable.
I was glad when Eldunzi settled for a place near
the back. I slipped in beside him, letting my gaze follow his towards the head of the room. A low stage
had been erected there, and on it stood a half-dozen
men. None of them looked like the sort I’d willingly
tangle with, but even amidst that unsavoury crowd,
one stood out – a king rat amongst lesser vermin. He
was poised before a podium, clearly preparing to
speak to the assembly.
I recognised him – though I’d many a reason to
wish I didn’t.
What I’d told my newfound companion was true.
I really did know our host from way back. First as a
supposedly ex-criminal barkeeper. Then as an
unlikely resistance fighter. Most recently, as betrayer
of his companions, myself included, to a certain
invading warlord.
He was the last person in the world who should
have been on that stage. Yet I didn’t feel any surprise, just a nauseating sense of inevitability.
How had Castilio Mounteban come to be running
Altapasaeda?

CROWN THIEF
from the Tales of Easie Damasco
by David Tallerman
384 pp paperback and eBook
UK/RoW/Ebook: October 2012
North America: October 2012

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